The MisAdventures of Ian Flannery
by hearttorn
Summary: A series of one shots into the history of Ian... how he came to be the man he is in the books, some of his history with Bones, Spade and Mencheres, and some new characters... Rated M for language and occasional situations it IS Ian, after all!
1. Glimpse 1

The (Mis)Adventures of Ian Flannery - Glimpse 1

London, 1787

I relaxed back into the well-stuffed mattress, trying to calm my breathing. It took a bit longer than usual this time, since the lovely young duchess had been very energetic this afternoon. She'd been feeling quite frisky; so frisky, in fact, that even I, who considered myself to have a very impressive sexual stamina, actually worried for a moment or two that I might not be able to keep up.

I grabbed a few bites of cheese off a nearby tray and poured myself a well-deserved glass of wine. I lay back on the plump pillows and regarded the room around me. Heavy draperies hung on the walls, four giant posters framed the bed, with more heavy draperies ready to enclose and disguise whatever happened within. Large portraits of family members long gone hung on the wall.

I snorted as I took in their aristocratic, snooty faces. I had some of that aristocratic blood running through my veins, yet I'd had none of the privileges of their birth. No, I'd been born in shame, a poorly kept secret; a small sum given to a serving maid who'd briefly kept the heir's attention and then gone and had the horrible taste to actually get pregnant. As if it were all her fault. Not the same family, but I'm sure each aristocratic family has the same story.

I looked over at the beautiful young duchess lying next to me, sleeping peacefully, sated for the next half hour. Indeed, I'd had none of her indulgences, none of her education. What education I had, I gleaned for myself - even as a small lad I was always watching, aware of what was going on around me in the servant's quarters, seeing without needing to be told what was said and what was left unspoken.

I knew that such a life - of cleaning the master's shoes, of shoeing his horse, of cleaning his stables, of putting him to bed after a night of too much drinking - was not the life for me. So I saved what little my mam could give me, and I honed to an art the lifting of purses off the toffs in the busy, filthy streets of London. And I saved my money until I could buy a fancy frock coat, then a pair of velvet trousers, a fancy pair of slipper shoes, a lacy shirt. I knew from glancing in the broken mirror we had in my mam's room that I was an attractive bloke - a fact that the other, younger serving girls confirmed. But I had my sights set much higher.

When I wasn't off lifting purses, I was still watching, listening. I watched how the upper class blokes walked, acted, greeted each other. I listened to how they spoke. When I came across a pretty lass, I'd practice bettering my speech on her. And I'd practice my other skills as well.

Slowly, I began to speak better, walk better, look better. My chestnut hair was washed more often; my clothes kept shining clean, neat and pressed. Even though I kept insisting she didn't have to, when my mam was finished with her day's work, she'd often fix the lace, or press the coat, or shine the shoes. "It's all I can give you, Ian my son. We both know you were born for better than this. You're getting out of here, and I'll spend my last breath helping you if I must, my lovely, pretty lad," she'd smile.

So now, at the age of twenty-five, I'd slowly seduced my way up the ranks - first serving girls to learn the basics, then a working girl or two to learn some tricks of the trade, as it were, then lower level toffs' wives, all of them leading to the lovely young blonde sleeping peacefully next to me. Each of them had helped me in some way - some taught me skill, some taught me style or better speech, some simply had some money or valuables around that made their way out with me before the sun rose.

But next to me was the big prize, as they say - the young Duchess of Kent. Much younger than her husband, very randy, beautiful with a lovely, plump body, and, if her lover could keep her satisfied, she, in turn, could keep her lover a well kept man. Her husband gave her a very generous allowance, and if you were the one to keep all her horny - and sometimes risque - urges met, she was easily persuaded to keep you satisfied as well.

So far, I'd been successful. Her every need had been met, many, many times over, and we'd managed to elude her husband. Already she'd had her servant purchase for me a lovely ivory lace shirt, with pearl buttons, a flounce at the neck and long cuffs at each wrist. I quite taken with it. She loved to run her hands through my chestnut hair, although occasionally in the heat of the moment she was wont to grab great handfuls of it and yank painfully. Still, as far as jobs went, this certainly beat being a chimneysweep.

I'd finished the wine by this time, and was getting a bit drowsy. Figuring it was best to get a bit of rest while I could, I slid down farther into the pillows, threw the heavy blanket over me and drifted off...

… the most lovely feeling... something warm and wet was wrapped around my cock... it was sliding up and down, up and down, pulling me from my sleep, but still the wine held onto me, not wanting me to wake yet... then I felt soft, warm fingers stroke and tease my balls...

A voice whispered to me. "Ian..." it drew out melodically... "Ian... wake up, my lover, I need you..." Then I felt a warm, soft weight settle across my thighs and that lovely, warm wetness surround my cock again. This time the pulls were stronger, more insistent. The haze that the wine had settled around my mind, along with sleep, finally lifted, and I raised the edge of the blanket just as Elizabeth raised her head on an upstroke. She ran her tongue around the head of my cock and gave me a mischievous look. She suddenly twisted position so that I was faced with her core, already wet with want. She threw me a wink over her shoulder then leaned down to take me in her mouth again. I moaned against her and my tongue crept out to taste her. I felt her moan against my shaft and it felt incredible. Right then, whatever caused her to do that, which in turn felt so amazing to me, was the plan. I gave her a long, slow lick, shuddering against her at her answering moan, then began to fuck her with my tongue while my hips had my cock fucking her mouth. She moaned, long and almost keening, and shifted trying to both get her pussy closer to my face and take my cock farther down her throat. I reached around and pinched her clit with my fingers and it immediately set off her orgasm, and she spasmed uncontrollably against my face, each spasm causing her to suck harder and harder on my cock. I held her hips back a little from my face to watch her sucking me with abandon, and it was my undoing. I came in a long, shuddering spurt down her throat, which she swallowed as if it was the sweetest cream, and then proceeded to lick my cock clean.

I was just starting to think that perhaps I could keep this one around a bit longer, when I heard a deep male voice call out, "Elizabeth darling, all you alright? Your maid said you were ill in your chamber. Shall I send for the doctor?"

It was one of those moments that will be frozen in my mind forever: the Duke of Kent, all dressed for court, and the look on his face, seeing his lovely young wife, with my cock in her mouth and her bare sex to my face. It was also supremely pleasing to me that I did not lose my erection.

However, I did think, "Oh, bugger."


	2. Glimpse 2

Richmond-on-Avon, Summer 1770

I sat on the back step of the servant's quarters, moodily kicking the heel of my shoe against the stone and feeling my right eye swell shut. The scrap of cloth my mam had given me with witch hazel on it wasn't working; I could feel the black eye creeping across my face.

"Ian! Stop kicking like that, those shoes are barely holding together as it is. I don't need you kicking the arse out of them, there's nothing to replace them with. We'll be doing good to be able to find you some second hand boots by winter. Now, come in here so I can see your eye."

I sighed and went into our small room and sat on the narrow cot. My mam came in with the small oil lamp lit and I lowered my small rag of witch hazel.

"Oh, Lord Jesus, look at your poor eye," she said. "Why on Earth did you have to provoke John like that? He's two years older than you, and he must weigh at least a stone more. Why could you not just do as you were told?"

My job, if you could call it that, was to run notes back and forth from the summer estate of the family my mam worked for to the town. Every summer, the sweating sickness hit London like a plague, and the royal family moved to their country estates. All the titled, rich families - like the ones my mam found work with - did the same.

My mam swore the sickess was because of the state of filth in London. She was from County Wicklow in Ireland, and only came to England to look for work because there were so many in her family that her father couldn't feed them all. She was disgusted by London, and always told me how London was nothing but filth and sewage.

But still, no matter how far into the county people moved, they still needed things from the town, like visits from the doctor, or for the vet to come out and see to a sick calf. I ran notes back and forth all the day long, except today I was distracted.

I had taken the note to the apothecary's with a request for him to make up a compress, and was on my way back when I spotted to son of the family my mam worked for. He and some friends of his were always looking for trouble. I had managed to elude their notice thus far, but today was my eighth birthday. Today I felt I was big, grown up, tough. So when they noticed me, and began to tease me, instead of just slipping away as I always had in the past, I stood my ground.

And got the shite knocked out of my for my troubles. But instead of running off, I stayed and took the beating. And with each punch, each kick, each blow, I learned. So while I was sitting on the back stoop kicking my heel, my mam thought I was pouting over my eye. Not so. In my head, I was replaying what happened. And I was seeing how I could've dodged each blow, turned each punch against my attacker, used each kick to sweep the kicker off their feet.

And at eight years old, I started to become fearless.


	3. Glimpse 3

It was the newest thing - the cinematograph. It was supposed to have _moving_ pictures! And some of them even had sound! Those weren't the ones I was interested in, though - I'd heard from some of my mates that some had naked ladies in them. Well, I say "ladies," I suppose they weren't really ladies if they were taking it all off for everyone to see, were they?

That was the problem, though. They weren't taking it off for everyone to see. Well, for me to see, anyway. No matter how many chores I did, extra jobs I took on, hell, no matter how many bob I lifted off the toffs, I just couldn't justify spending the quid on it. We needed too much, my mam and me. I gave her every extra pence I could; she knew most of it came from less than legal means but we needed it too much for her to call me out for it.

So there I was, hanging around outside the theater with some mates, hoping that some blokes my age might come out and tell us about it. Instead, an older bloke, a well off one, too, walked by and saw us. Didn't take too much looking to guess what we were hanging about for. He looked at me and my mates, looked back at the theater and smiled.

"Want to see the new moving pictures, aye?" he asked.

"Yes, sir," I responded.

"Not enough bob for it?"

"Not quite, sir," I answered. "I give most of my money to my mam, and we can't afford such as this."

"Honest one, aren't you?"

"I can be, sir, if it will get me further," I answered honestly.

He gave a great big laugh. "What's your name, sonny?"

"Ian, sir. Ian Flannery."

"Irish, are you?"

"My mam's Irish, sir, but I'm English. Born and bred in London.

"I'm of Irish descent myself. I was like you once, too. Had to work hard, no money for trifles. I like you, Ian. I like your honesty. It reminds me of myself when I was your age." He took out his wallet and removed some notes. "Here, take this and go see the new cinematograph. But don't go telling your mam you saw naked ladies, aye?" He winked.

I looked with astonishment at the notes in my hand. There must be _five whole pounds_ here! That was enough for me and all my mates to go see the cinematograph, have a pint and still have some left over to give to my mam!

"You're just giving me this, sir?" I asked with astonishment.

"Take it, Ian, and repay the favor someday when you can. And you will be able to; bright lad like you who works hard will go far." He smiled and then was swallowed up in the London bustle of crowds.

I looked at my mates. "Well, lads, let's go and see what this is all about!"

Half an hour later, my cock was the hardest it had ever been, and I was sitting very uncomfortably in my chair. There on the screen was a moving picture, all right, of a lady half dressed. Her bosoms were out for all to see, and she shook them at the camera. At each shake, I grew harder and harder. I adjusted myself in my trousers and noticed a few of my mates were doing the same thing.

All too soon, the picture was over and we were at the pub. We were all a bit stunned by what we'd seen. Oh, sure, we'd all caught glimpses of girls we knew, or had a quick feel, but none of us had ever seen a lady just shake them like that, like it was no bother.

We were quiet over our pints. Finally, my mate Brian broke the silence.

"Well," he said, "Fuck me."

That pretty much summed it up. I knew, right then, that I was going to become someone who could give away five pounds like it was nothing, and I knew, in my very bones (and in my still very hard cock) that I was going to become someone that would get to know ladies' bosoms (and other parts) _very_ well.


	4. Glimpse 4

_A/N: One of my reviewers for my other Night Huntress story, Temptations of the Grave, asked that I write a new chapter for this story. Since she's a fellow Ian lover, I'm happy to oblige. This is Ian's take on first meeting Cat. All his thoughts are in italics._

I listened as down stairs, my butler Magnus opened the door to evidently find an FBI agent. Christ, not again. I'd already answered the police's many questions about the disappearance of Jerome and Thomas. I mean really, what would you do if you caught your employees trying to sell your antiques on eBay? I did what any self-respecting Master vampire would do and administered justice, vampire style – drained the both of them. Let that be a warning to the rest of my employees.

I heard Magnus say he'd check if I was in, and inwardly I chuckled. If I didn't want to be IN, then the FBI agent would go away with no memory of me, this house, OR Thomas and Jerome.

Magnus came to the door wearing a sly smile. He spoke so softly that I could hear him, but the agent downstairs couldn't.

"I think you'll want to be in for this one, sire."

Now my curiosity was piqued. I already knew it was a woman from her voice, but from the look on Magnus' face, she was definitely worth a look.

I spoke equally softly. "Tell her I'll see her."

I checked myself in the mirror before going downstairs to meet her – call me vain, I don't care, it's actually one of my better traits – chestnut hair perfectly combed, tan shirt perfectly pressed, everything as it should be. I headed downstairs and got quite the shock.

_Sweet bleedin' Christ, she's gorgeous! That hair, those eyes, that skin… something about that skin… _

I gathered my wits back together enough to speak. "Agent Arthur," Flannery said. "This must be about my two employees, but I've already been questioned by the police."

"Yes, this is about Thomas Stillwell and Jerome Hawthorn. The Bureau would appreciate your cooperation."

"Of course. Anything to assist law and order," I said with amusement.

"And you're comfortable speaking here?" she asked, trying to get more of a look around. "Or is there somewhere private you'd prefer?"

I sauntered over. _Yes, poppet, I'm gorgeous as well and I know it, too._ "Agent Arthur, if you want to have a private word with me, call me Liam. And I do hope you want to talk about something other than boring Jerome and Thomas."

"Liam, you're not flirting with a federal agent who's investigating you in a double homicide, are you?"

"Catrina, an innocent man doesn't fret over the wheels of law whenever they rumble in the distance. At least I commend the feds on sending you to speak with me, beautiful woman that you are. You also look a bit familiar, though I'm sure I would have remembered meeting you before." _She __**does**__ look familiar, but who do I know that she looks like? I know haven't me her before, I'd remember. And fucked her unconscious, too. Which I'd like to do now…_

"You haven't," she said immediately. "Trust me, I would have remembered."

I gave her a dirty chuckle. "I'll bet."

"Back to business, Liam. Are we talking here, or somewhere private?"

I sighed. "If you insist on traveling this path, we may as well be comfortable in the library. Come with me."

She followed me through the impressive, yet empty room in the house. But the Aborigine artwork caught her eye. "This looks…primitive."

"Aborigine, nearly three hundred years old. Given to me by some mates of mine in Australia."

I neared her, my eyes starting to glint emerald. I had her alone, and I was positive I could get what I wanted. _Which was to fuck her into next week_, my subconscious added.

Her mobile rang. "Hello," she answered.

"Agent Arthur, are you still questioning Mr. Flannery?" I heard over the line.

"Yes. This should be wrapped up in thirty minutes." _An obvious stalling tactic. If I get my way, your backup team will be waiting for hours, poppet…_

"I believe the police told you that the bodies of Thomas Stillwell and Jerome Hawthorn were found with most of their blood missing. And not any visible wounds on them to account for it," she said, not beating around the bush. _I like that in a woman._

I shrugged. "Does the Bureau have a theory?"

Flatly she shot back, "You do, though, don't you?"

"You know what I have a theory on, Catrina? That you taste as sweet as you look. In fact, I haven't thought about anything else since you walked in."

I closed the distance between us and lifted her chin. I was a good kisser, and I knew it. I used all my hard-learned techniques on her, trying to persuade her to my eventual goal of fucking her up against the wall of books.

Her arms went around me, and I slid his hands down to her hips and felt the hard outlines under her trousers.

"What the hell—?" I sputtered, pulling back.

She smiled – _Christ she was gorgeous_ – then said, "Surprise!" and she struck.

I was faster than she anticipated. I swept her feet out from under her just as she jabbed, her knife missing my heart by inches. She dropped to the ground, rolling away from the kick I aimed at her head. I moved in a streak to try it again, but then jerked back when three of her throwing knives landed in his chest. She'd just barely missed my heart again.

"Sweet bleedin' Christ!" I exclaimed and quit pretending to be human, letting my eyes turn glowing emerald while my fangs popped out. "You must be the fabled Red Reaper. What brings the vampire bogeyman to my home?"

I was intrigued, but not afraid. I was more wary, however, and circled around her as she sprang to my feet, throwing off her jacket to better access her weapons.

"The usual," she said. "You murdered humans. I'm here to settle the score."

I rolled my eyes. "Believe me, poppet, Jerome and Thomas had it coming. Those thieving bastards stole from me. It's so hard to find good help these days."

"Keep talking, pretty boy. I don't care."

She rolled her head around on her shoulders – _there's something familiar about that move_ - and palmed more knives. Neither of us blinked as we waited for the other to make a move. What she didn't know was that I'd summoned for help. Magnus was creeping quietly closer toward us, barely disturbing the air around him. All my talk was just to buy time.

I shook my head in (false) self-recrimination. "Your appearance should have warned me. The Red Reaper is said to have hair as red as blood, gray eyes like smoke, and your skin…mmm, now there's the real distinction. I've never seen such beautiful flesh on a human before. Christ, girl, I wasn't even going to bite you. Well, not the way you're thinking."

"I'm flattered you want to fuck me as well as murder me. Really, Liam, that's sweet."

I grinned. "Valentine's Day was just last month, after all."

I was slowly forcing her toward the door. She pulled a very long knife from her pants leg, one that was practically a small sword, and switched it with her throwing knives from hand to hand.

I just grinned more when I saw it. "Impressive, but you haven't seen _my_ lance yet. Drop your trappings and I'll show you. You can even keep a few knives on, if you'd like. Would only make it more interesting."

I lunged forward, and she flung the five knives in her left hand at her and whirled to avoid the blow from Magnus behind her. With a single swipe she sent the blade into Magnus' neck. It came out on the other side. His head rotated on its axis for a moment, wide eyes fixed on her, before it plopped to the ground.

I yanked her silver knives out of him and flung them away. "You nasty bitch, _now_ I'm going to hurt you! Magnus has been my friend for over forty years!"

I went leaping at me with incredible speed. I didn't have any weapons except my body and my teeth, but those were formidable. I pounded my fists into her, but she retaliated with punishing blows. _Hmmm, there's something familiar in the way she fights…_

Finally I threw her across the room and she crashed near the Aborigine art. I went flying after her, but she kicked out and knocked me backward into the display case. Then she tore the sculpture off the wall and flung it at my head.

I ducked, cursing when the intricate artwork broke into pieces behind me.

"Don't you have any bleedin' respect for artifacts? That piece was older than I am! And how in the blazes did you get eyes like that?"

"That bone puzzle was older than you are, huh? So you're what, two hundred? Two fifty? You're strong then. I've skewered vamps as old as seven hundred who didn't hit as hard as you do. You're going to be fun to kill."

I grinned at her. "Two hundred and twenty, poppet. In pulseless years, that is. The other ones weren't good for anything but poverty and misery. London was a sewage back then. Looks much better now."

"Too bad you won't be seeing it again."

"I doubt that, poppet. You think you'll enjoy killing me? I know I'll _love_ fucking you."

"Let's see what you've got," she taunted.

I flew across the room at her, too swiftly for her to avoid me—and delivered a brutal blow to her head. It dazed her, and she went limp, eyes rolling back and her throat temptingly tilted upward.

"That's better," I muttered, and knelt next to her. My hands traveled over her body, and then I grunted in amusement. "Talk about an army of one. Woman's wearing a whole bloody arsenal."

I unzipped her trousers in a businesslike manner, planning to strip her of her knives. When I pulled her trousers past her hips, however, I froze. There, etched on her hip, was a tattoo of crossbones. Suddenly, I knew why her fighting style was so familiar.

_Crispin. She's Crispin's. Fuck. If he chooses to claim her by right of bite and bed, I can't touch her. Is she why he's been in such a foul mood these past few years, starting fights with anyone who looked at him wrong? Is she why he hasn't been his normal, promiscuous self?_

While I was busy being stunned by this revelation, she seized a nearby dagger and drove it into my heart. I froze, eyes shocked.

"I thought if the Alexander didn't kill me, nothing would…"

"Which one are you?" she asked, holding the knife still.

"What?"

"In 1788, four convicts sailed to South Wales penal colonies on a ship named the Alexander. One escaped soon after arriving. A year later, that runaway convict returned and killed everyone but his three friends. One of them was turned into a vampire by choice, two by force. I know who you're not, so tell me who you are."

I was even more astonished than I'd been when she stabbed me in the heart. "Only a few people in the world know that story." _How does she know…? Crispin must've told her. It all comes back to Crispin and women._

She gave the blade a tiny, menacing flick that pushed it in deeper. _Fuck_.

"Ian. I am Ian."

"Liam, or Ian, if you prefer, listen to me very carefully. You and I are going to stand up. I'm going to pull this knife out, and then you're going to run away. Your heart's been punctured, but you'll heal. I owed someone a life and I'm making it yours."

I simply stared at her. The matching glowing lights of our eyes merged.

"Crispin." She didn't react. I let out a pained laugh. "It could only be Crispin. Should have known from the way you fought, not to mention your tattoo that's identical to his. Nasty trick, faking to be unconscious. He would have never fallen for it. He'd have kicked you until you quit pretending."

"You're right," she agreed calmly. "That's the first thing Bones taught me. Always kick someone when they're down. I paid attention. You didn't."

"Well, well, little Red Reaper. So you're the reason he's been in such a foul mood the past few years."

Her face flickered just a fraction. I pressed my advantage. "You and Crispin, hmm? I haven't spoken to him in a few months, but I can find him. I could take you to him, if you'd like."

She got control over her face and laughed derisively. "Not for gold. Bones found me and turned me out as bait for the marks he was paid to kill. Even talked me into that tattoo. Speaking of gold, when you see Bones again, you can tell him he still owes me money. He never paid me my share of the jobs like he promised. The only reason it's your lucky day is he helped rescue my mother once, so I owe him for

that, and you're my payment. But if I ever see Bones again, it'll be at the end of my knife."

"You're part vampire. You have to be with those glowing eyes. Tell me—how?"

She sighed. "Some newly dead vampire raped my mother, and unluckily for her, his sperm still swam. I don't know who he is, but one day I'll find him and kill him. Until then, I'll settle for deadbeats just like him."

Somewhere on the far side of the room, her mobile rang. She didn't move answer it, but spoke hurriedly.

"That's my backup. When I don't answer, they come in with force. More force than you can take on right now. Move slowly; stand up. When I take this knife out, you run like hell and don't stop. You'll get your life, but you're leaving this house and you're not coming back. Do we have a deal? Think before you answer, because I don't bluff."

I smiled tightly. "Oh, I believe you. You've got a knife in my heart. That gives you little reason to lie."

She didn't blink. "Then let's do this."

I began to pull myself to my knees. Each movement was agony, but I thinned my lips and didn't make a sound. When we both stood, she carefully drew the blade out of my back and held the bloody knife in front of me.

"Goodbye, Ian. Get lost."

_Well, well. Crispin and the Red Reaper, hmmm? She just admitted to being the world's only half-breed. And it didn't sound like she and Crispin parted on good terms. I collect the rare and unusual, be it art or, now, people. I just had to find a way to convince the little Red Reaper that she wanted to be mine. And figure out why she looked so familiar…_


End file.
